by Sara Craven
Aloud, she said, ‘But it must be lonely there—especially for a small child. I might stroll over there later—play a game with her, or take her for a walk. Maybe bring her back to play in the pool.’
‘Ochi!’ Hara’s vehemence was startling. ‘No, thespinis. Not possible. The child belongs in other house, not here. Better you go to beach for walking.’
‘Then perhaps I’ll talk to—to Kyrios Vassos about it,’ Joanna said, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar name.
Hara’s face assumed its former stony expression. ‘No, thespinis. You must not speak of this. It is not permitted. There are things you do not understand.’
She placed the clothes she was holding on the dressing stool and hurried to the door.
Joanna watched it close after her, her initial bewilderment giving way to anger.
Not permitted? she echoed silently. No prizes for guessing who’d issued that edict. Hadn’t the Greeks invented the word tyrant—a description clearly tailor-made for the owner of Pellas?
She could see now why Stavros had been so anxious to steer her away from the olive groves without actually forbidding her to go there.
Nothing to see indeed, she thought indignantly. Only human beings.
From what Hara had said, it seemed obvious that the girl and her baby had been put into virtual exile.
Another form of Gordanis revenge? she wondered bitterly. But what on earth could they have done to deserve it?
Things you do not understand …
She clattered her cup back on to its saucer.
‘No, Hara,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘You’re the one who doesn’t understand. That little girl is scarcely more than a baby, so, whatever’s happened, she’s the innocent party in all this—and she’s unhappy. Also lonely. I saw it in her eyes. And I knew she didn’t want me to go.’
Although the mother wasn’t neglectful in material ways. The tot was clearly well-nourished, and her clothes were expensive if unsuitable.
But how much time did she actually spend with her, teaching her all the skills a growing child needed. Or simply talking—laughing with her? Making her feel loved and secure?
That’s what really matters, Joanna told herself passionately. And while I’m around I’ll make sure that’s what she gets. And it will help me, too. Give me some kind of purpose in this life that’s been forced on me.
She showered, dressed in a pair of white shorts and a jade-green tee shirt and went down to have breakfast. It seemed a more protracted meal than usual with Andonis hovering to ask if she would like a fresh pot of coffee—more hot rolls—grapes instead of nectarines.
Afterwards, he asked her if she’d enjoyed the honey that had come with the bowl of thick, creamy yoghurt, and, when she said in perfect truth that it was delicious, began telling her in detail how it had come from the bees his older sister Josefina kept on Thaliki.
After which Hara arrived, apparently to supervise the maids who were sweeping the other end of the terrace, and Joanna realised, lips tightening, that she was being watched.
Accordingly, she crammed on her hat, picked up her bag and set off ostentatiously in the direction of the cove. Once out of sight of the villa, she sat down on a convenient boulder, allowing some fifteen minutes to elapse before doubling back.
I feel like a character out of a thriller, she reflected, wrinkling her nose as she skirted the gardens and reached the olive trees without the alarm being raised.
She found her way to the house without difficulty, but there was no Eleni to be seen, playing in the garden or standing at the gate. In fact the whole place looked oddly deserted. She stood at the fence for a moment or two, listening to the silence, then tried the gate, only to find it locked. So that, she thought, would seem to be that.
Yet where could they possibly have gone—and so quickly? Had she been deliberately delayed over breakfast so that they could be moved on?
Ah, well, she thought with a soundless sigh. So much for my good intentions. She turned to go and paused as something seemed to flicker in the corner of her eye.
Was it her imagination or had a shutter moved at an upstairs window? She waited for a moment, gazing upwards, but all was still again, and with a small, defeated shrug Joanna went back the way she had come.
She spent the day quietly, reading in the shade of the terrace, trying not to think about Vassos’ return, and what it would mean.
He did not return in time for dinner, and as she ate her solitary meal Joanna began to hope that he would remain in Athens overnight.
When she went to her bedroom, one of the new nightgowns was waiting for her on the bed. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, she thought numbly, gazing in the mirror at the simple column of cream satin, slashed to the thigh and falling from a wide band of lace which veiled her breasts without totally concealing them.
Even she could appreciate that, although Vassos had clearly bought it for his own delectation rather than hers.
Only he was not here to see it, she reminded herself thankfully, as she climbed into bed.
She was woken by a hand on her shoulder, and Hara’s voice saying her name.
She sat up. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘All is well, thespinis. Kyrios Vassos has returned and is asking for you.’
She almost said, But it’s the middle of the night, remembering just in time that was probably exactly the point.
‘Not good to make him wait,’ Hara warned as Joanna slid reluctantly out of bed. She was holding a large shawl, fine and light as gossamer, which she wrapped briskly round the girl’s shoulders before ushering her out of the room and down the corridor.
She paused before a pair of double doors, knocked, then turned the elaborate iron handle, indicating that Joanna should enter.
He was standing by the open window, looking out into the darkness, glass in hand. He was not wearing the crimson dressing gown, she saw with relief, but a simple white towelling robe. His hair was damp, and there was a faint hint of soap and some expensive cologne in the air.
He turned slowly and looked at her. ‘Kalispera.’
She held the shawl closer. ‘Isn’t it a little late for good evening?’
‘I was delayed in Athens.’ He drank some ouzo. ‘Hara said you were sleeping. Were your dreams very sweet, matia mou?’
‘I—I don’t remember.’ But an unwanted memory of what had invaded her rest the previous night brought swift colour to her face.
‘Then I shall feel less guilty about waking you.’
‘I doubt you even know what guilt is.’
He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Perhaps I discovered it today when I listened to Petros trying to make excuses for all the lies he told about you, Joanna mou.’ He added grimly, ‘And about other matters.’
She looked down at the floor. ‘I feel almost sorry for him.’
‘After what he has done?’
‘Yes,’ she said in a stifled voice. ‘Because it doesn’t even compare with the misery you seem determined to inflict on me.’
‘You were brought here to make amends, Joanna mou,’ he said, after a slight pause. ‘Perhaps I now wish to do the same.’
‘Then let me go.’ She stared at him in open appeal. ‘I swear I’ll say nothing about what’s happened. And if—anyone asks, I’ll pretend you only ever meant to frighten me.’
‘But I think I have indeed frightened you, pedhi mou. And hurt you also. I cannot let you go thinking that is how it must be between a man and his woman.’
‘I am not your woman!’
‘Not yet,’ he corrected softly. ‘But that is about to change.’ He looked her over again, his mouth curving in sensuous appreciation, then drank the rest of his ouzo and put the tumbler down before he walked to her, parting the folds of the shawl and pushing it from her shoulders.
She heard him catch his breath sharply, then she was lifted into his arms and carried across to the vast bed which dominated the room, and which she had been trying so very hard
to ignore.
He settled her against the mounded pillows and lay beside her. He pushed her hair back from her face, his thumb gently stroking her cheek, then slid one narrow satin strap from her shoulder, kissing the faint mark it had left on her skin.
The band of lace had slipped, too, baring one rounded breast, and he sighed against its scented flesh as he bent to take her nipple between his lips and caress it softly to unwilling but involuntary excitement.
This time it would be different, she thought. He expected to get pleasure from her and—unbelievably—to bestow it, too.
But she could not allow that to happen. She had to somehow keep her resolve to give nothing—and ask for nothing.
He raised his head, said her name softly, then kissed her, his mouth moving on hers with delicate, deliberate restraint. Reviving memories of the delicate dream-like caresses of the previous night.
It was she thought almost like a warning—signalling his determination to lead her slowly to a submission that she would be ultimately unable to resist.
Her task was to convince him all over again that he was wrong. That he could not arouse her to yield to him.
Having first convinced herself.
His fingers found the long slit in her gown and slipped inside, skimming over the smooth skin of her thigh before moving persuasively, subtly, up to her hip where they lingered.
His kiss deepened, coaxing her lips to part for him, reminding her that she could not afford the slightest intimacy. But how could she go on resisting when his hand was beginning to trace the slender planes and angles of her pelvis? Eliciting a quiver of response deep inside her that shocked her by its intensity. And scared her, too, because it threatened to weaken her resolve.
And then, quite suddenly, the kiss was ended, the hand removed.
‘You are still fighting me?’ Lying on his side, he watched her, his expression quizzical. Against the white robe, his skin looked darker than ever. Barbaric. ‘Why?’
From somewhere she found the defence she so desperately needed. Forced the words from her throat. ‘Because I hate you.’
‘But I do not ask for love, matia mou,’ he said softly. ‘Just to teach you to need my body as much as I want yours.’
‘That will never happen,’ she said huskily, after a pause.
‘No?’ His smile was slow. ‘You seem very sure.’ He hooked a finger under the other strap of her nightgown, pulling it down and baring her breasts completely.
‘And yet you do not seem completely immune,’ he added, teasing each nipple in turn with a fingertip, watching them lift and harden at his touch, and sending a tremor of that same sharp sensation lancing through her entire body. ‘Let me show you a little delight, my lovely one,’ he whispered.
He pushed up the satin skirt, his hand stroking her slim thighs, then parting them without haste to discover the molten sweetness they sheltered.
Joanna stifled a gasp as she felt the sensual glide of his fingers exploring her secret woman’s flesh, her first experience of such a seductive caress—and its devastating effect.
His fingertip found one moist silken place and teased the tiny bud it hid, making it swell and bloom under his touch to aching tumescence and her inner muscles contract in a scalding spasm of longing she’d never known could exist.
She was lost suddenly, breathless and drowning, then fighting her way back to the surface of her control with the last drop of will-power she possessed.
She heard him whisper, ‘I want you so much, agapi mou. Don’t make me take, when I wish so badly to give.’
His lips were gentle at the side of her neck, his hands sliding down to fondle her breasts with equal tenderness, touching them as if they were flowers.
She was aware of the throbbing heat of his erection, and her pulses were going crazy, desire clenching inside her like a fist.
How it must be …
He released her, turning away, and for a moment she thought he was leaving the bed, but one glance over her shoulder revealed that he was only removing his robe, then reaching for a drawer in the night table and making use of the contents of a small packet he’d extracted from it.
As he had told her, he still intended to make her completely his. And for one brief, desolate instant she remembered the beguiling sensuous web he’d begun to weave for her, before Vassos moved over her—into her—in urgent and breathtaking possession.
Making her realise that when his passion was spent, desolation was all that was left for her. And, what was worse, reminding her that she’d brought it entirely on herself.
CHAPTER TEN
IT SEEMED almost as if her body had been ready—even waiting—to be united with his. As if it was only the driving rhythm of his possession that could appease the throbbing ache now building slowly and insidiously far within her.
Tempting her to put her arms round him and offer her parted lips to the kisses she’d once denied him. To arch her body towards him, taking him ever more deeply into her in the ultimate surrender.
Above all to pursue and capture those incomprehensible but exquisite sensations that seemed to be hovering, tantalising her, just beyond her reach, and so discover for the first time the reality of passion’s physical conclusion.
And then, just as Joanna realised, stunned, that this might be an actual possibility, it was suddenly over. She heard him cry out hoarsely and felt his body shudder into hers. For a moment he lay still, his face buried in her breasts, his slackened weight pressing her into the mattress, and Joanna conquered an impulse to lift a hand and stroke his sweat-dampened black hair.
How can I even think of something like that? she asked herself incredulously. When I hate him? And when I’ve told him so?
Yet was that really what she felt? Or did she only hate the senses that had so nearly betrayed her?
Before I met him I never knew, she thought. Never imagined—how it must be.
After a while Vassos moved, lifting himself silently away from her. He got up from the bed, picked up his discarded robe and walked across to a door she guessed must lead to his bathroom.
As soon as she was alone, Joanna hastily adjusted her nightgown, pulling up the straps of the bodice and tugging the skirt over her legs so that she was reasonably covered again. Then, heart racing, she waited.
He was not gone for long. When he emerged, she saw thankfully that his robe was now wrapped round him. He came back to the bed, not hurrying, and lay down beside her on his back, his arms folded behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.
He turned his head slowly and looked at her. ‘I hope this time you experienced less discomfort, and that you did not find my demands too excessive?’
She touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips. ‘No, I—I didn’t.’
‘Then that is a beginning at least,’ he said. ‘Even if not the one I hoped for.’
She took a deep breath, trying desperately to pull herself together. To regain control of her thoughts as well as her emotions. ‘May I go now, please? Or do you—want.?’
‘No,’ he said harshly. ‘You may leave.’
She slid off the bed, retrieving the shawl on her way to the door, enfolding herself in its softness, even keeping it round her as she climbed back into bed in her own room. It was far too warm a night for it to be necessary but she found it oddly comforting just the same.
But why should she need comfort? After all, she knew now the worst to expect and it was—endurable, wasn’t it? Or even dangerously more than endurable, she thought, remembering the seductive caress of his hands and lips as they’d gentled her body, coaxing her towards the threshold of delight. And if she had refused to cross it with him, she had only herself to blame. Or thank.
At any rate, it would not last for much longer. She was sure of that.
He’d made it clear that he had not found tonight particularly rewarding, she thought. So he would soon be looking for a more amenable girl to be—what had he called it?—a pillow friend.
She turn
ed over restlessly, looking for a cooler place on her own pillow, which didn’t seem friendly at all, remembering, as she did so, the previous night and how he’d held her, lulling her to sleep in spite of herself.
The way, too, that he’d caressed and fondled her gently while she slept. The touch of his hands and mouth on her skin tonight had totally convinced her of that, she thought, her body warming. Denial might be convenient but it was also pointless.
She was suddenly stifling in the shawl—and in the nightdress, too, she decided, stripping herself of them both. Even the sheet across her body was more than she could stand.
She was not just hot, either—she was on fire, every pulse beating a tattoo that echoed the throbbing hunger filling her innermost being, and that even her comparative innocence could recognise was unsatisfied longing. A renewed awakening of her flesh that had been ignited the first time he had lain with her.
I can’t let myself want him, she told herself with a kind of desperation as her body twisted on the mattress. Not after the way he’s treated me—after every terrible, vile thing that he’s done. I must be going crazy even to contemplate it.
She sat bolt upright, trying to control the flurry of her breathing, to quell the tumult of her senses.
Sleep, she thought. Oh, God, I really need to get some sleep. Then, tomorrow, I can forget this madness and begin again.
But she soon found that was not going to be as easy as she’d hoped. Half an hour later she was still wide awake, staring into the darkness, the sheet beneath her damp with perspiration.
She put her hands flat on her breasts, touching them softly, tentatively. Feeling her nipples diamond-hard against her palms.
Is this how it’s going to be—this agony of need each time? This longing for him to make me in some way—complete?
The questions beat at her brain, or at the brain of the stranger she had suddenly become. This creature of sensations and yearnings she did not even recognise.
Yet the alternative was to go to him—offer herself—and that was unthinkable. Wasn’t it? Because what could she possibly say to him? What excuse could she give?
